


Lecture

by beyondcanon



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 15:50:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1610717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyondcanon/pseuds/beyondcanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone fears Santana, the hot Political Science professor. That is, everyone but Brittany.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my [prompt challenge](http://beyondcanon.tumblr.com/tagged/ma%27s-prompt-challenge) on Tumblr. Some stories will be posted here; this is one of them.

Her stiletto heels click as she enters the classroom.

She takes off her grey blazer and sets it on her chair before handling their graded term papers.

The students sit upright, recoiling in fear. She smirks, full red lips delighted at the reaction.

They know she’s the best – the youngest to be offered tenure, the most prolific researcher and the most demanding professor in her department.

Their hearts still beat faster whenever she enters a room.

She’d much rather be feared than loved.

—

She likes coffee, and she likes being alone.

She has her special corner on the coffee shop on campus where she likes to plan her classes and read students’ dissertations.

She barely needs to shoot a glare or two to be left completely to her own devices. It’s perfect.

The general buzz is very soothing, and the warm cup on her hand is just what she needs.

“Hi,” Brittany says, sitting by her side very much uninvited. “I got you a brownie.”

Brittany  _knows_  she loves brownies.

She sighs and takes it. “I’m working.”

“Me too,” Brittany says, pulling out sheets and a big headphone from her bag. She’s got her green tea and her cookies, and she immerses herself right by Santana’s side like it’s no big deal.

She’s sitting on an impossible and likely uncomfortable position on her armchair. Sometimes, her dangling feet brushes Santana’s leg.

It’s very distracting.

—

She goes to Brittany’s presentations because Brittany’s insistent and relentless.

She really, really doesn’t care about it.

She’s alone, still in her dark grey pantsuit from her last class, and she sits in right in the middle.

At least Brittany makes for good entertainment, her movements fluid and poetic whenever she takes the stage.

Brittany’s students… not as much.

Santana sighs.

—

Brittany is the most absent-minded person Santana has ever met.

She is actually crossing a street without looking to both sides, and there’s a car coming their way.

Santana grabs Brittany’s upper arm and yanks her back in a swift motion. “Careful,” she says, her body against Brittany’s.

“Sorry,” Brittany answers, blinking a few times. “I was thinking about Martha Graham’s last choreography and how it could have ended.”

Santana rolls her eyes. “Sure.”

Brittany kisses Santana’s cheek so gently Santana isn’t really sure it has happened. “What would I do without you?”

Santana clears her throat and changes the subject.

—

She becomes Head of the Political Science Department because she’s  _that_  good.

She celebrates in her home with three bottles of fine wine and her best friend, Quinn Fabray.

Quinn’s in love and that means she’s a pain in the ass. One bottle in and she’s already asking Santana what she’s so afraid of.

“I like being independent,” Santana answers with a glare. “I like my life.”

“I think you know what you like,” Quinn says cryptically before standing up to fetch some Doritos.

—

It’s amazing how much Brittany is  _not_  afraid of her.

Everyone else is.

There’s a rumor she’s got razor blades in her hair, for the love of god.

Her dark red nails tap her office’s desk as she stares at a student. “Do you think I have cognitive problems, Mr. Flanagan?”

He shakes his head. “No, ma’am.”

She shoves his paper on his face. “Do you think I have any mental disorder that would bar me from realizing your paper on Habermas is complete plagiarism?”

He stares at his own lap, paralyzed.

To his luck, Brittany knocks on the door and sticks her head in.

Santana raises her hand so Brittany waits a moment. “I don’t know how you people do things in Ireland, but you have 24 hours to come up with something completely original or I’ll have you expelled.”

He runs out of the office, and Brittany enters.

She sits on Santana’s desk like it’s no big deal. “You frown too much.”

Santana rubs her own forehead, her eyes closed. “I do not.”

Brittany sighs. “When were you going to tell me?” she asks, pointing to the  _Head of Department_  plaque right in front of Santana.

Caught red handed.

“I’m sorry,” Santana answers quietly.

She didn’t mean to hurt Brittany, she just… doesn’t like to brag.

“It happened weeks ago,” Brittany presses.

Santana doesn’t answer because there’s nothing to say but to apologize, and she’s not going to beg.

“Yeah,” Brittany says, hopping from Santana’s desk. “I thought so.”

She leaves the room.

—

It’s not begging, but Brittany’s anger makes Santana’s stomach in knots and Santana can’t even eat when she’s like that.

“Hi,” she says, entering the main studio.

Brittany’s closing up after her advanced class, like Santana had predicted. She doesn’t say anything.

Santana clears her throat. “I brought you something.”

She opens the box she’s carrying to show 100 of Brittany’s favorite chocolate cookies.

Brittany takes a bite of one, and Santana allows herself to release a deep breath.

“You can’t buy me with cookies, Santana,” she says, still distant, still cold, “but nice try.”

Santana’s cheeks are irritatingly hot and she feels embarrassed. She puts the box aside. “I don’t know how to say I’m sorry.”

She gets closer to Brittany and dares to touch Brittany’s hip.

“You never call me.” Brittany turns to her. “I always call you.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, looking into Brittany’s eyes.

Brittany’s eyes shine under the light like she’s about to cry. “I’m always running after you. It’s like you don’t care.”

Fuck, she can’t let Brittany cry because of her.

“I’ll call you every day,” Santana rushes to say, both hands on Brittany’s waist now. “I’ll take you everywhere. Just don’t look at me like that, please.”

Brittany sniffs like she’s holding back the tears, and it’s too much.

She doesn’t know how it’s happening, but she’s against Brittany now, face to face thanks to her black pumps, and Brittany’s forehead is on hers.

She can feel Brittany’s breath, and she’s also very aware she’s breathing through her mouth. “Don’t be mad,” she pleads, running her thumbs on Brittany’s hips. “I care.”

Brittany nods slowly. There’s a long silence before she speaks again. “Will you  _ever_  ask me on a date?”

Santana catches her breath, body tensing.

Brittany realizes it and takes a step back in defeat, untangling herself from Santana.

Santana’s heart beats very erratic.

She pulls Brittany back, her hands palming Brittany’s back and making sure they’re pressed together.

She swallows dry and takes a deep breath. Brittany smells like lilies. “Yes.”

It’s Brittany who kisses her, capturing her lower lip between hers and grabbing her hair.

It’s equal amounts of unexpected and wonderful, and Santana’s stomach unknots and her entire body relaxes.

She squeezes Brittany’s waist, simultaneously pulling her closer and walking them both to the nearest wall.

Brittany’s tongue enters Santana’s mouth and they both groan with the sensation. Brittany tastes sweet, like chocolate mint, and Santana welcomes her in her mouth, sucking her tongue.

Her head is spinning, but she can’t stop. She bites Brittany’s lip and pulls, earning a hiss and a tug on her hair.

Brittany immediately proceeds to kiss Santana’s neck, sucking and biting in a way that makes Santana squirm and moan. She claws Brittany’s shoulders for support, her nails sinking on Brittany’s skin.

"Wait." Brittany stops and pulls back to look into Santana’s eyes, suddenly very serious. “You  _are_  paying, right?”


	2. Chapter 2

Five days go by.

Brittany acts like nothing has happened.

She interrupts Santana’s research at the library, like she would usually do, standing there in black leggings and a loose shirt and tempting Santana with her favorite pastrami sandwich.

“You can use a break,” she kindly informs, and Santana doesn’t have it in her to disagree.

They eat outside, the sun warm on their skin. Brittany tells her about the rehearsals for her graduating class for thirty minutes.

Santana lets her, lulled by the sound of Brittany’s voice.

—

She calls Brittany, now. Every night, when she gets home. That’s new.

It’s nice to ask about her day and listen to her voice at night, when they’re both getting ready to bed.

She doesn’t know what to think of this.

—

Santana doesn’t  _do_  dates. She does casual sex, hot and steamy sex with no emotional significance whatsoever.

How do people even dress for dates, anyway?

Does she have a proper dress? What  _is_  a proper dress?

Her wardrobe isn’t that varied. She chooses a white silk blouse, black slacks, her usual high heels and makes sure she’s displaying much more than the proper amount of cleavage.

Her hair falls on her shoulders, and she chooses a dark shade of red lipstick for the evening.

—

Brittany’s legs are really, really long.

Santana drinks the image of Brittany leaning against Santana’s black sedan and waiting for her, and almost forgets to worry about what do to next.

“Hi,” she says, staring at Brittany’s dress, eyes dragging over Brittany’s hips.

“You look like you’re going to a business meeting.”

Her eyes snap back to Brittany’s, lips pressing together and cheeks warming because really, what was Brittany expect—

“I like it,” Brittany interrupts her train of thought and pulls Santana by hem of her pants until they’re pressed together. “It’s sexy,” she says right before she nuzzles Santana’s cheek.

Oh.

She takes a sharp breath and wraps her arms around Brittany’s neck, because Brittany’s lips are doing  _things_  to her jaw that send a jolt right between Santana’s legs.

She can’t shake off the fact that Brittany finds her clothes – her usual clothes – sexy. “Really?” She manages to ask, her eyes closing when Brittany’s lips find her neck and suck with intent.

Brittany hums, teeth scratching the same spot, her hands on Santana’s waist. “You have no idea.”

—

Brittany has a motorcycle.

“We’re taking my car, right?” Santana asks, not joking at all.

She likes the security of several tons of metal  _around_  her, instead of being in the open exposed and ruining her hair.

“No,” Brittany says, pressing against Santana from behind and how did she get so convincing? “We’re taking Iris.”

Santana can’t avoid the smirk. “She has a  _name_?”

“She’s a classy lady,” Brittany says, her breath hot against Santana’s ear.

Santana supposes there’s no moment like the present to face one’s fears.

—

Doesn’t mean she has to open her eyes once they’re actually moving, though. If she dies, she has no intention to see it coming.

—

She doesn’t die, and they get to a lesbian Latin club.

Lesbian. Latin. Club.

How is that even a thing?

Brittany grabs her hand and leads the way to the bar, hips swaying more than usual. Santana knows she’s being tested, pushed out of her comfort zone on purpose.

Brittany orders them tequila shots, and so be it. Santana gulps it down, feeling the burn on her tongue and the sharp taste of lime on her lips.

Brittany stares incisively when Santana’s tongue darts out to her top lip, cleaning the remaining drops of liquid. Santana takes her time, wetting her lower lip as well, smiling deviously.

Two can play this game.

—

She’s going to regret her choice of shoes, but she doesn’t even care.

When a lambada starts to play she knows it’s her moment to shine. She stands up from their table and pulls Brittany towards the dance floor.

A tall brunette touches Brittany’s free hand when they’re on their way. Santana’s nostrils widen in indignation – isn’t it obvious enough that Brittany already has company, that Brittany is  _hers_? – she promptly breaks that contact, shoving the girl aside with a sneer.

Brittany looks like she’s enjoying it, that little shit.

Santana pulls them abruptly in position and pray to the pagan gods she still remembers how to lead.

She’s wearing the pants, right? She’s the gentleman. It’s not like she doesn’t enjoy being the dominant one.

“Ready?” She asks, and Brittany’s eyes shine with the challenge.

She likes lambada because it’s fast and energetic – no time to think about the next move, just to  _do it_  – and Brittany’s dress is perfect for them to spin around the dance floor, hands clasped together as Santana begins to take them away, feet moving in quick succession with a small stop to undulate their bodies, leaning towards Brittany so Brittany leans back.

The women are already staring at them, looking like their panties are about to drop.

Santana loves it.

She pulls Brittany back up again and spins her by the shoulders, back and forth, enjoying how her long, blond hair flies with the turns of her head.

Brittany trusts her completely, never hesitating to go wherever Santana pushes her – it’s exhilarating.

She clasps their hands together and keeps them over their heads as she lets their hips and feet do their thing – her body feels heated and there’s sweat on the back of her neck but she doesn’t even care, she’s pulling Brittany against her and grabbing her waist possessively, their hips grinding together, rolling in circles swiftly.

Brittany’s panting heavily when the music ends, a very satisfied smile on her face. Their mouths clash together of mutual accord, hungry and wet, Brittany moving to pull Santana’s hair, moaning in Santana’s mouth, the beat thundering around them.

—

“You’re full of surprises,” Brittany almost purrs on Santana’s ear. “Like Christmas gifts.”

Santana smiles, her left hand on Brittany’s waist as they stand facing each other.

Her shoes are on her right hand, what means she’s back to being significantly shorter. It’s hard to be a top when you’re so much smaller and you have to tilt your head up and stand on your toes to demand a kiss.

Her feet are  _throbbing_ , though, and she’s as exhausted as she’s ever been in the last decade.

Santana has to admit bikes are sexy in their own right, watching Brittany climb on Iris. “I could get used to it,” she shrugs, not really managing to cover her grin.

A soft breeze rushes by, and the sky begins to shift to lighter tones of blue.

She can’t really believe she went out dancing until sunrise. “You better,” Brittany says pulling Santana by the collar for one last kiss, long and erotic, tongue exploring Santana’s mouth unrushed. “You’re my girlfriend now.”

She puts her helmet on and doesn’t really allow Santana an answer.

Not that Santana’s complaining, anyway.


End file.
